Nighthawks (Children of Nostradamus Book 1) (13 page)

“Vanessa,” Alyssa said out loud, “we need an escape route. We’re under heavy fire and there’s no way out.”

“Who are you?”

Alyssa held up her finger to silence him. “Oh shit,” she said as a large plane hovered over the yard.

“Dwayne,” she screamed. “Paladins!”

The man didn’t hesitate. He stood, electricity arcing between him and the robot. His eyes sparkled. Loud crackling could be heard as the electricity jumped from his torso to his hand. Where before the lighting had poured out of his hands, this time it emerged from his chest, projecting outward, hurled at the small craft hovering above the yard.

Skits turned to Alyssa. “Anything?”

“She seems occupied,” Alyssa said in a shrug.

It dawned on Conthan who they were talking about. “She was with the Warden, but not really, she was kind of in a place.” He panicked. “I can’t explain it.”

“Telepath stuff,” Alyssa said. “None of it makes sense.”

Alyssa turned to the siblings. “We’re on our own,” she yelled.

Dwayne stopped the arc of lightning and pulled the last of the electricity out of the machine. “I don’t have much left.”

The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder as the hovercraft struggled to maintain its position. Doors under the craft opened and lines began to roll out. Several soldiers began sliding down the ropes.

“What now?” Conthan asked, standing next to his rescuers.

“You have roughly twenty seconds to master your powers and become useful,” Dwayne said. “Until then, you’re a liability.”

“Can’t argue that,” Conthan retorted.

Dwayne gave a slight nod to the two girls. “We’ve trained for this.”

Conthan didn’t hide the surprise on his face. For some reason, he hadn’t thought the super powered people had to do anything other than be super. It hadn’t crossed his mind survival was an everyday event for them.

Conthan ducked behind Skits as the blue light shielded them again. Bullets reached the plasma and dripped onto the ground. He could hear her steady breathing as she tried to focus. Dwayne unleashed another bolt of lightning at the wall, knocking guards off the other side. He stepped from behind the shield and started taking shots at the oncoming Paladins.

Two fell before he ducked behind the shield again. “Four on three.” He smiled. “We’ve got this.”

“Got it,” Skits said as she leaned forward and started into a charge. The shield began to fade until she whipped her hands out to the side, the blue touching the edge of two Paladin rifles. The guns warped at the touch of heat and the owners threw them down.

Conthan watched as the girl’s hands became living weapons, throwing one punch out and then another. The Paladin dodged, ducked, and stepped outside each of her movements as if he were baiting her. He stepped inside her grip, grabbing her arms and throwing them out wide. He kicked her hard in the torso, sending her flying onto her back.

“On it,” Alyssa said, running into the fray.

Dwayne looked up to the craft and could see another figure beginning to slide down the rope. He held up his hands again and several bolts of lightning intertwined and separated until they finally struck the craft, sending plumes of smoke into the air. He continued to pour it on, redirecting his efforts to the final descending figure. As the bolt tore into the soldier, he watched them plummet to the ground.

“Vanessa,” he said out loud. “I don’t care what you’re doing, we’re outmatched.”

Conthan looked at him. “She was with another telepath.”

“A what?”

Conthan stayed crouched down near the ground. “I don’t know, she was fighting somebody in a place that wasn’t here.”

Conthan had no idea what he was talking about, but by the ghost-like expression on Dwayne’s face, he knew it made sense to the man. Dwayne froze for a moment. “If there’s another telepath, we need to get out now. Teleport us.”

Conthan could see he was talking to him. “I don’t know how.”

“You’ve done it before, right?”

“Once.”

“Do it again!” he yelled.

“Damn performance anxiety up in here.”

Dwayne started running after the two girls. It dawned on Conthan the people fighting right now were trying to save him. He watched as guards began to line the walls and shots were fired all around him. He could only assume the Outlanders had vanished and now attention was being brought to the crowd inside the prison. He looked down to his hands and flicked his wrists. “How the hell does this work?”

He tensed his muscles and felt none of the sensation from the night before. He paused as the soldier that had been hit by lightning stood up from the ground. Her clothes were in tatters, barely hanging onto her body. He was amazed she’d survived, let alone was able to walk. Her determination showed as she stormed toward the fray.

Conthan gasped in the eerie hush as gunfire ceased. He could hear the aircraft landing outside the gate, but inside, all the soldiers held their positions and waited for orders.

“Dwayne,” Conthan yelled, pointing to the woman.

Everybody turned to see her approaching. Dwayne began making hand gestures to the other two women. “Conthan,” he shouted, “how’s it coming over there?”

Alyssa watched as the woman came closer. “Who the hell?”

“Captain of the Paladin,” she said. “Surrender or be exterminated.”

Alyssa took a fighting stance, ready to drop the woman to the ground. The woman didn’t attempt to engage other than a lightning-fast fist to Alyssa’s stomach. Alyssa attempted to bend with the blow but she buckled over like a lead weight had slammed into her gut. She fell to the ground, gasping for air.

“Last chance,” Jasmine said.

Dwayne thrust his hands out, the last of the electricity surging through his arms and slamming into the chest of the woman. Her approach halted. She leaned forward, and took another step, ignoring the blasts. He stopped the ineffective barrage. “Not human,” he said.

Skits jumped in just as the last of the electricity dissipated. She let the plasma engulf her hand. Putting her body into the punch, she landed it on the woman’s shoulder. The woman hissed at the contact. “Terminated.”

Conthan watched as the scorched woman brought her fist back to hit Skits. He wanted to do something to help. Everybody was going to die for his sake. He felt the tingling start at the base of his skull and his eyes lit up as he recognized the sensation from the night before. The tingling turned into a mild pain at the front of his brain. He focused his sight on the fist lunging toward Skits.

Skits gasped as she watched the woman’s fist vanish from in front of her. She jumped back as the same fist appeared next to the woman’s head, hitting herself against the side of the face. Skits and Dwayne turned to Conthan. He could see their eyes were both wide.

“Teleporter,” Dwayne yelled, “get us out of here.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. He focused on the tingling sensation in his skull. He saw the woman stand up and he pointed his hand, trying to concentrate on where she was kneeling. A bolt of pain ripped through his skull as a void opened beneath her. The darkness wove through the space between the gravel and the woman and he swore he could feel every point of contact between her and the ground.

She yelled as she fell into the blackness. He felt a tug on his body as another black hole opened nearly forty feet in the air. She emerged from the space. Instead of flailing, she tucked her body into a ball and slammed into the ground, sending dirt and dust into the air.

Dwayne was holding Alyssa. “We need you to make one more. We need the other end of it to be far, far away from here.”

Conthan looked at him blankly. The boy’s eyes were dark, nearly ebony. Conthan felt the tingle in his body beginning to fade. “I don’t think I can.”

Yes
.

Dwayne smiled at the voice. “Close call.”

Skits put her hand against Conthan’s forehead. “Don’t fight it.”

A numbing sensation washed over his body and he realized he was seeing out of his eyes, but as if down a long hallway. His body moved without him. He went to speak but realized no sound was coming from his mouth.

Relax,
came the voice.
I’m going to help.

Who are you?

The same person who saved you earlier,
said the voice calmly.

His hands were in front of his body and a black void opened in thin air. He could hear the gunfire begin anew and he pushed Dwayne into the void. He jumped in after and suddenly a harsh cold washed over his body.

Where are we?

He could feel her hesitation. Then the sensation of falling, but more as if it was a memory. He couldn’t see anything. All around him, blackness radiated outward, stealing the warmth from his body.

A white light appeared on the other end and as quickly as the darkness consumed him, his body was bathed in sunlight. He rolled along the grass and stared up at the sky. He could see Dwayne holding Alyssa above him. He went to speak and he didn’t have the energy to open his mouth. He closed his eyes and let the sun warm him while he lost consciousness.

Chapter Eleven

June 8th, 1992 4:31PM

Mr
. Davis sat in a small room watching a television suspended from the corner of the wall. On the screen, a man busted into a small home. The red door exploded in a fury of splinters as the metal ram slammed into wood. The camera caught several men as they ran into the room, all holding assault rifles.

They made hand gestures, signaling each other to move into tactical positions. The man in the front passed through the living room, his rifle held up to his face as he charged up the stairs. Another door was busted open, and inside, trying to hide on the far side of the bed, were a mother and her daughter. The woman clung to the tween tightly, shielding her eyes from the scene unfolding.

The soldier in front didn’t stop to talk; he didn’t hesitate. Three shots, one in the mother and two in the daughter’s head. Both bodies slumped against the wall, lifeless.

The scene changed to two reporters behind a desk. “This footage was leaked online earlier today. The soldiers were sent to the home of Penelope Rogers and her daughter Chloe. It is another casualty in the effort to suppress mentalists. Chloe was a registered, exhibiting telepathic abilities. At this point there is no information if Chloe or her mother were part of the terrorist group responsible for the reactor meltdowns in the Northeast.”

The camera zoomed in on the female reporter. “In other news, protestors continue to rally against The Culling. Protest leaders state that the government has overstepped its boundaries, creating a genetic civil war and demonstrating tactics similar to the Holocaust. Protestors continue to gather outside the White House rallying against the president’s decision to eliminate all registered mentalists.”

“Mr. Davis,” said a small man in a freshly pressed suit, “I have your files for you.”

When Mark didn’t turn away from the television, his assistant waved the files in front of the screen. Mark looked up, shaking his head. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I brought your files.”

Mark rubbed his eyes, trying to keep himself from falling asleep. He took the manila folder filled with papers. Leaning back, he stretched his neck and twisted his torso, loosening up stiff muscles.

“How long have you been waiting?”

“Hours.”

The small waiting room was inside a military complex just outside of Washington, DC. The decor reminded him of the later 70s, wood paneling and old chairs with orange cushions. The walls were bare other than the single television in the corner. He had been inside numerous military installations and they all had a certain feel to them, a mix between outdated and barren. This one was no different.

“Do you want me to bring anything else?”

“That’s everything, Carl. If anything, can you check on Mrs. Davis? I have no idea how long this will go on and I don’t like the idea of her sitting at home alone with Valerie.”

“Absolutely.” Carl gave him a handshake and he was out the door. Mark remembered being a wide-eyed intern at the White House. It was only a few months ago he was interning with the Office of the Chief of Staff for a special project labeled “Second Prospect.” The office answered directly to the president and helped develop the training facilities utilized by the mentalists. It had been a long six months and Mark felt the weight of the world on his shoulders increase daily.

Each night the news ran a similar story. Innocents were being gunned down in their homes in an effort to eradicate people with the ability to see the future, read minds, or even move objects by thinking. Several times he recognized the lifeless bodies. They had been applicants, people looking for help learning to cope with the immensity of these gifts. They had come willingly and he had been the one to sign the paperwork asking they be admitted to a research facility.

One of the doors pushed open. Two men in black suits with earpieces attached to the side of their heads stood in the doorway. “This way, Mr. Davis.” He followed one of the suits through the door while the other stayed close behind him. Whenever he had been in the presence of the president, the Secret Service agents had always dwarfed him, making him feel insignificant and dangerous all at the same time.

The corridor snaked through the building until he reached a glassed-in conference room. He had been expecting the room to contain only the president, but it appeared as if she had several Joint Chiefs of Staff in attendance. Mark walked into the room and stood at the end of the table opposite the president.

“Mr. Davis,” said the president, “please have a seat.”

“Do you see what’s going on out there, Madame President? There is a war brewing.”

The woman didn’t bat an eyelash as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Mr. Davis, if you’ve come to state the obvious, we are drastically overpaying you.”

“I’m sorry, Madame President. Some of the people on the news were my charges. Every time I watch the news, I see bodies. They’re children.”

“Mr. Davis.” The president signaled to the two agents. “I suggest you get your emotions under control and come back when you can present yourself appropriately.”

Mark threw the manila folder onto the table. The papers slid out in front of president. “I’ve detailed the conversion of one of our research facilities.”

One of the men in uniform pushed the manila folder away from him. “Mr. Davis, I agree, we’ve already had to deal with the ramifications of Second Prospect. You’re saying we sanction these people?”

Mark ignored the man. “Madame President, we can convert the research facility in Massachusetts. It’s inside the radiation zone of the attack. It’s a wasteland. It will allow us to not only keep the people away from the general population, but to continue studying them. Do you think the Russians or the Chinese have given up their programs? Absolutely not.”

The president took one of the pages from the folder and looked it over. She raised her eyebrow, set down the paper, and picked up another sheet. She glanced from it to Mr. Davis, then folded her arms as she leaned back in her chair.

“Why are you suggesting this, Mr. Davis?”

“Does it matter?”

“Entertain me.”

“People are being killed. At least here we will have the opportunity to save them. Study them in seclusion. It would be better to create a maximum security prison for them than watch them be slaughtered on the evening news.”

“This is preposterous,” said one of the men in military garb.

“Says the man with his finger on the trigger,” Mark spat out.

“Know your place, Mr. Davis,” the president said. She turned to the man sitting at her side. “You as well. At least Mr. Davis can blame his insolence on youth.”

“Madame President,” the man said, “this will cost us millions of dollars and will put American lives in jeopardy.”

She lifted her hand to silence him. “We have domestic terrorism running rampant. I want you to take care of that. Mr. Davis”—she shuffled the papers back into the folder—“I will arrange a meeting with you and a private benefactor who supported my campaign. They would be interested in this concept of yours.”

“You’re putting me in charge?” He couldn’t hide the shock on his face. She stood up and walked over to him. She was the most powerful woman in the world, and she was striding toward him, offering him an opportunity far beyond his years of experience.

“Can you think of another man for the job?”

He avoided her eyes as he took the files. She rested a hand on his shoulder, staring him straight in the eye. “I am taking my chances with you, Mr. Davis. Do not disappoint me.”

“No, Madame President.”

She shook his hand. He turned to walk toward the door. One of the military men at the table cleared his throat. “What’s the name of this prison you’re suggesting?”

Mark tried to hide his chuckle. The military was obsessed with giving code names to any initiative they partook in. There were code names for code names. They loved to play their games of deceit, something he was obviously not very well versed in.

“The place I am building,” he corrected, “will only be known as The Facility.” He clutched the folder in his hand and pushed the door leading out into the hallway. He looked through the glass to see the president smiling. She was pleased with him, but the smile spread across her lips looked wrong, as if there was more going on behind the scenes.

The Secret Service agents escorted him out of the building. He wiped his hand off on his pants. He had met with the last person to see Eleanor alive. The woman hadn’t steered him wrong; she had been right at every turn. He knew he played a dangerous game getting close to the woman who signed the executive order killing the mentalists. He wished he had guidance at this point, something to show him he was making the right move.

“I hope this was part of your plan, Eleanor,” he muttered under his breath.

***

Jasmine
rested her hand on the glass staring into the operating room. Her teammate’s body writhed in agony as he screamed out. His voice was muffled by the transparent doors, but she couldn’t stop seeing what was transpiring. Her skin crawled. She continued staring at him, determined to overcome the challenge her stomach was proposing.

She watched as the scientist in the room tore away at the Corpsman’s pants, pulling them back from the horribly broken limb. There were bits of splintered bone sticking out from his knee and blood pooled on the floor beneath him. The scientist yelled to his two assistants, who began attaching plugs and diodes to the man.

The white coats moved about the operating room, grabbing instruments and beginning to diagnose his situation. She knew the outcome. His humanity began to slip away the moment he reached the Body Shop. They would ignore his modifications plan, forgetting to check the “No Enhancement” barcode on his neck.

At least you’ll be alive to complain
, she thought.

She almost believed the people inside the room were doctors. They moved like a trauma unit she had seen as a child. Glass computer screens replaced the cloth curtains that had existed once upon a time in emergency rooms. Surgeons were a dying breed as more financially advanced hospitals left behind doctors and nurses for coders and software developers.

His humanity vanished as the scientist plunged a needle into the thigh of the man’s broken leg. As the plunger pushed down, he began to scream, his spine bowing, threatening to hurl himself from the table.

The nanites, mini programmers, scoured his veins, beginning to rob him of his soul.

One of the assistants held out a clear plastic panel, high enough that all could see. The panel snapped to life as an image appeared. Clearer and clearer, Jasmine could see the musculature and circulatory system of her comrade. With only a few taps on the screen, the blood flow came to an end. The man in the white jacket held a small tool to the man’s leg and the laser began to cut away at the soldier’s flesh.

Jasmine stared at the scene, trying not to blink. Her eyes watered at the smell of burning flesh. His body was being consumed by the machines of godless men. As the assistant handed the doctor a metal leg, she knew he would begin the slippery slope to becoming a machine. At first he would comment on how amazing it was to walk again. He would be impressed with the hydraulics and how much sturdier it was than his other leg. Then he would replace the weaker leg.

He would be persuaded to give up his soft baby blue eyes in place for synthetic eye-shaped cameras. He would opt for the cognitive process enhancers that would allow him to react faster in the field, saying, “It’ll keep me alive.”

Jasmine turned away from the door. She tried to justify wrapping her arms around herself and hugging tightly. She tried convince herself she was trying to settle her stomach. She willed herself not to cry. Her teammate would survive, but she mourned him giving away the one thing she craved.

She took a steadying breath and leaned her head back against the sheet metal coating the walls as she slid down to the ground. She let her hand rest on the base of her skull where a small scar revealed a violation on her body. On the other side of her skin, a piece of technology kept her subjected to the authority of her owners. Her epidermis tightened, absorbing the properties of the metal against her back, and she welcomed the pain rushing through her body. She breathed through clenched teeth as the transformation happened. She slammed her fist into the ground, leaving a dent where her knuckles connected.

“More human than you,” she whispered, trying to convince herself.